


Habits

by onebatch2batch



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Revealing of Feelings, Shy Frank is my kryptonite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onebatch2batch/pseuds/onebatch2batch
Summary: Karen's been putting her thoughts to paper since she was a kid, and Frank happens to find one that includes him.





	Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Got this cute little idea and had to type it out quick for the Kastle fam. Enjoy!!

Karen Page has this habit. 

Since she’s been small, she’s always written things down. Her childhood bedroom is still littered with her old diaries, and as a teenager she’d been a waitress and had filled all of her serving books with absent-minded scribbles. Nowadays it’s more reserved, but there are still times when the words in her head overwhelm her and she has to scribble them out on the nearest scrap of paper, as if to anchor them to reality. 

There’s a wall in her living room that’s dedicated to work. Post-it notes covered in sloppy notes, red string, pictures—the whole shebang. She looks at it and follows the string, reads over the jigsaw of post-its, feeling her thoughts straightening as she reads. It’s easier this way, even if it looks like a disaster to anyone else. 

Her desk is the same way. Papers sprawled across the hardwood, little scraps of notes like afterthoughts she didn’t want to lose. When Frank steps into her apartment for the first time after the carousel, bruises turning to a sickly green and dark shadows under his eyes, he can’t help but smile. The organized chaos is so  _ Karen _ that it comforts him to look at it, even if he doesn’t understand. 

Over time as they spend more days together, get more comfortable in one another’s presence, he stays on her couch. Her apartment becomes like home to him, and he begins to understand her mannerisms. When she’s engrossed in a story, there are oftentimes she forgets about food. On these days he’ll bring her a plate and some coffee and force her to eat, then sit quietly on the couch or the windowsill and read while she works. During her writing-binges, she loses all sense of where she is. She’ll leave papers everywhere, and he’ll oftentimes from sticky notes littering the floor:  _ check on Williams lead  _ and  _ docks???  _ and  _ pick up almond milk.  _ When she’s not preoccupied with a story, they cook together, and watch television on the couch, and go for walks late at night. It’s nice, and it’s easy, and it’s not enough.

At first, he knows he’s not ready for more, but as time goes on he finds himself watching her work, finds a wide smile on his face when she laughs. It’s a slow process, coming to grips with how much affection he has for her. He shoves it away when he can, and soldiers through his feelings when he can’t. 

He’s wandering around her apartment one day while she’s showering when he notices some papers on the floor. He picks them up and shakes them into an orderly pile. A slip of paper, ripped off something else, flutters to the floor. It’s no bigger than his palm, and he picks it up curiously. 

_ I’m falling in love with Frank Castle _ it reads in her hurried, cursive script. His name is less hurried than the others, as if she’d paused before writing them, maybe considering, before deciding to finish it. He stares down at the paper and honest to god feels his throat close up with emotion. 

_ Love _ stands out like a beacon. He traces the lines of the letters with his eyes, holds the paper in a feather light grip. He never thought, after all the shit that he’s been through, that someone would love him again. Not like this. He thinks of Karen’s electric blue eyes settling him, thinks of her long fingers brushing his when they’re walking side by side, thinks of the little beauty mark above her lip that lifts whenever he cracks a joke. There’s something like giddiness in the grin stretching across his face, and something like fear settling in his chest. 

The shower shuts off and Frank stuffs the paper in his pocket, then quickly shrugs on his coat and disappears out the door. 

 

—

 

He ignores Karen’s first two texts.  _ Hey where’d u go?  _ and  _ If ur going to tht rly good coffee place, can u grab my usual?  _ At her third  _ Is everything ok?  _ he types out a quick response. 

_ Be back soon  _

He returns to her apartment an hour later and knocks on the door. There’s movement inside, then a pause as she looks through the peephole, and he hears her laugh. When she opens the door she’s smiling. 

“What are you doing out here? You never knock.” 

Frank shifts, suddenly nervous, suddenly rethinking everything. What if the note meant nothing? What if he was making a mistake? What if he told her what he wanted to tell her and she slammed the door in his face? He can’t bear to lose her, on top of everything else. Karen furrows her brow and looks at him questioningly. 

“What’s going on? Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, uh, here. These are for you.” 

Karen stares down at the bouquet of flowers in surprise, then takes them and tries to fight back her smile. The daffodils and baby’s breath are bright against her dark t-shirt and jeans. It’s a nice contrast; dark and light— _ kind of like us _ , he thinks. 

To his surprise, she laughs. “Frank,” she says warmly, “get inside.” She grasps his sleeve and yanks him in, closing the door. She steps past him and digs in the cabinet for a vase, then places them in the window where she used to place the roses. When she’s done admiring them, she turns and places her hands on her hips, looking over his tense shoulders and wary frown. “So what’s this about?”

He swallows and reaches in his pocket, then holds out the scrap of paper from earlier. Her gaze zones in on it, baffled, and when she reads it her eyes widen slightly. A soft blush dusts across her cheeks. “Oh,” she says softly, “I um...I didn’t realize I left that out.” 

“I was cleanin’,” he explains. He casts a glance down at his toes and then back at her nervously. “Is—is it true?” 

Her expression is deceptively calm. He wonders if it’s a ruse, because he’s terrified. This is scarier to him that any criminal he’s ever faced, than any dark alley he’s ducked into, any asshole shooting at him. It’s nearly on par with when he had asked Maria to marry him, what felt like an eternity ago. He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and he shoves them in his pockets. 

The wind comes through the window and tousles Karen’s hair as she looks at him. She seems to be picking her words carefully when she says, “I thought you knew.” 

Frank blinks at her, and then realizes he’s a fucking idiot. He  _ should have  _ known. Of course he should have known—since they met, Karen has always been a constant. A constant  _ what  _ he’s not exactly sure. Friend? Confidant? More? Her presence has always brought a complicated cocktail of emotions with it; guilt, anxiety, warmth, fear...but more often than not, she’s been a persistent ray of light in the dark shitshow that’s his life. “I guess I should’ve,” he mumbles, embarrassed. 

She steps closer, slides a hand up his arm and rests it on his neck. Her eyes are gentle when she looks at him, her smile even more so. “If that’s not what you want, or...if you’re not ready…”

He allows himself to rest his fingertips on her cheek, marvelling at the smooth skin there. He’s touched Karen before, his lips have briefly been where his fingers are, but it seems like a lifetime ago. When he was still fighting a war, and didn’t have time for softness that didn’t stem from pleading her to stay out of danger. Now, she watches him, and waits patiently for his answer. Like she’ll take any answer, as long as it makes him happy. 

He looks up and meets her eyes again, and gives her a timid smile. “Don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” he says slowly. “...but I wanna try. For you.” 

She laughs softly, cages his head with her fingers and brings his forehead to hers. “Not for me, Frank. For you. And us. But not for me.” 

He knows she’s right, and he angles his head carefully, experimentally pressing his lips to hers. It’s not magical, or horrible, or life-changing, but it’s  _ right.  _ He feels it in every breath against her lips, and every soft sigh he pulls from her lungs. Kissing her feels like the last piece of a puzzle, molding together to finally finish the picture. It’s short and sweet and when he pulls away she gives him a warm, happy look, laces her fingers through his. 

“We’ll take it at your pace, okay?” she murmurs.

He manages a nod, a little overwhelmed, but a smile tugging at his lips. Karen backs up a step and then takes another long look at the flowers. There’s a rogue smile on her face when she walks towards them and places the scrap of paper between the stems. She meets his eyes again, and gestures. 

“Want to get some coffee?”

Frank nods, and she slips her fingers into his again, pulling him towards the door. He casts one last glance towards the flowers shivering in the wind before the door closes after them. 


End file.
